


round and around we go

by funnefatale



Category: Marvel, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Falling In Love, Heimdall (Marvel) Lives, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funnefatale/pseuds/funnefatale
Summary: "Tag," she says, her voice simultaneously husk and soft, sounding almost as if she's finally speaking for the first time in a very long time. "You're it."He catches the bottle with an ease she sometimes forgets he's capable of – it really is godly the way he moves when he isn't bumbling around like an idiot – then, with his gaze locked on hers, he raises the bottle to his lips.And though it’s him who drinks, she finds it’s her throat that quivers.
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie & Heimdall (Marvel), Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 65





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a more descriptive warning: a lot of this fic explores Val's survivor's guilt and trauma, and how I think that would influence all of her actions post-Ragnarok. 
> 
> Everything is canon-compliant except that Heimdall lives.

History repeats itself. 

The first time she watches Asgard burn is when she escapes battle, the sole Valkyrie to survive against Hela. As she does, she's filled with shame for having ever fought on behalf of the throne – on behalf of any King that would so easily sacrifice his people, soldiers or not, over a throne – and part of her cannot help but up that Hela lives up to her name as the goddess of death and burns the whole planet to the ground. 

It would serve Odin right. 

The second time she watches Asgard burn, she fully intends to burn to the ground with it. Intends to die the way she was meant to – protecting Asgard. The way her Sisters died without her. 

Asgard is a people, not a place. She’ll die so that they can live. 

So she puts on her old armor and prepares to fight alongside a King who intends to die with her. And though she’s preparing for battle, for the first time since she left, she feels something resembling peace. She feels like a _Valkyrie_. 

History repeats itself, but at least this time she feels a little bit better about where she stands. 

  
  


Just because it’s easier the second time doesn’t mean it’s easy. Even when it’s clear what needs to be done, she stands there, watching the very palace she once abandoned crumble before her eyes, and something inside of her stirs. And if it hurts her, she thinks it almost kills Thor because she can actually see his heart breaking before her eyes.

The ache in her chest flares and, amidst all the chaos and destruction, the distance between them closes. 

"The people are safe," she says. "That’s all that matters." She taps the spot on his chest, reminding both of them that his heart still beats, that he will live to fight another day. That he _needs_ to live to fight another day. 

She doesn't let herself wonder when exactly they got so familiar.

  
  


In their desperation to find any sort of stability, the people look to her in their King's absence. Save Lackey and Heimdall, she's the closest thing they have to another figurehead from their old world. Yet the world they knew is hardly the one she hails from. 

They never knew the Valkyrie, only the legends passed down to them from previous generations. She isn’t royalty or a Lady of the Court or anything of the sort. She was a soldier – is, again, _whatever_ – one bred and trained to follow the throne and to die for it. The only difference between a Valkyrie and a citizen was her strength and ability in a battlefield. 

“Times change,” Heimdall tells her without prompt, as if his powers of observation extend into her very mind. 

While it’s possible the people look to her because of a title they don’t understand, it’s just as possible that they look to her because of what they saw with their own eyes – a hero, a savior. Someone who came to them when they needed her. Who protected them at the risk of her own life. 

“ _That_ is what a Valkyrie means to them.”

It’s a nice sentiment, she thinks. Though she doubts they would feel the same way if they only realized the reason she was able to come back now was because she abandoned Asgard in the first place.

  
  


A week into their journey, Thor comes to her room and says he requires her assistance whenever she has a moment to spare. There's something in the way he says it – firm yet gentle, with authority but enough softness to assure her that it is indeed a request – that almost reminds her of the old days. Of Queen Frigga summoning her favorite Valkyrie to the palace. In a way, given everything they've been through in their short time together, it should feel unnecessarily formal. Yet, somehow, it strikes her as familiar, almost intimate, in a way that reminds her of the last time she thought of Asgard as home.

When she reaches his chambers, he’s already stripped away the outer layer of his armor, leaving only his trousers and the already battered tunic that clings to his chest. 

She raises a brow but before she even has the chance to ask him for _what_ exactly he requires her assistance, he tosses her a dagger. It's slightly heavier and bulkier than she's accustomed to but it's clearly a weapon meant for battle. 

“I need to train,” he explains before he taps the side of his face where his eye had once been. “Heimdall won’t suffice,” he adds before she can question it. “Neither will Loki. I’m afraid after all our years together, I know their patterns too well for it to truly test my new limitations,” he explains. Then, with a smile, adds, “And surely you understand why I can't ask Hulk, so…”

“So what? You need me?” she asks with a playful smirk.

Given his babbling tendencies on Sakaar, she almost expects him to react similarly or to make some horrible joke that works only off of his smile and charm. It’s a foolish assumption given everything that happened after they left Sakaar. He’s already changed so much since then. That or their circumstances have allowed him to grow more familiar with her. 

"Aye,” he nods, his voice husk. “I need you." 

The words lingers between them, the weight of them heavy in the suddenly warm air.

She looks down and balances the knife in the palm of her hand, allowing herself a moment to adjust to the new weapon, before she pockets it and strips the top layer of her armor.

  
  


The point of training isn't to win, but there is a definite winner and it's definitely her.

Of course finding his weaknesses was the very point of the exercise. And it also wasn't exactly a fair fight given how unwise it would be for him to use all of his powers in such a confined space – after all, the last thing they need is a bolt of lightning to burn a hole in their already battered and beaten ship. But it isn't as if she's able to unleash all of her skills in their limited space either. 

Neither of which actually change the simple fact that she wins. 

However, the victory isn't as sweet because he's a gracious loser, more pleased by the exercise than disappointed in the outcome. He grins in a way that reminds her more of sunshine than thunder. She thinks it may very well be the brightest he's looked since they left Sakaar. 

It's only when he looks at her that she notices the grin on her own lips. 

Afterwards, she lingers in the doorway, not quite ready to abandon the high from their spar to return to the responsibilities that await her beyond the confines of his quarters. 

She’s hardly alone, she thinks, because he lingers there beside her, clinging to their final moments alone. Though, if the look in his eye when his gaze meets hers is any indication, his lingering has little to do with anything beyond the bedroom door.

So they stay there for a moment, him ever loyal to his gaze and her too stubborn to allow him the victory of her looking away first. And then slowly, almost as if it takes actual effort to separate his gaze from hers, his gaze slip from hers down to her cheek. She suddenly becomes all too aware of the stray droplet of sweat lingering, a residual remain from their training. He takes a step forward and, when she doesn’t step back, he lifts his hand, pausing right above her cheek, silently seeking permission to get a little more familiar. 

She nods once, so gently that he likely would not have noticed had he not been watching for it. 

His lips curl up and his thumb grazes against her cheek. His hands are strong and rough from battle, yet his actual touch is tender and soft, and something that feels almost like lightning strikes her core. She thinks had they met in their previous life, she would have shuddered under his touch. In more ways than one. 

As if reading her thoughts, he brings his gaze back up to hers. Then, without looking away, brings his thumb from her cheek to his lips, tasting the single drop of her.

It occurs to her that they’re way past familiar now. 

  
  


She returns to his quarters the following night, dragonfang in hand this time.

  
  


Heimdall is the first to refer to her as _Lady_ Valkyrie. 

She knows he means it as a joke, giving her old title its very own title, especially one he knows should have never applied to her. Being a Lady of the Court was the furthest thing from her mind back then, when being a member of the Court was a matter birth ranking. One was born and bred to live in luxury. She, on the other hand, was bred to die protecting their right to luxury.

Though, in Heimdall's defense, what transpires now is less of a Court and more like four people who stand near Thor, all of whom are warriors who exist to protect the people. By that definition, she may actually be the most qualified to serve in this new pseudo-Court of their making. So, in that sense, she supposes, she is a Lady of the Court by default of being the _only_ lady in The Court of Standing Near Thor. 

Joke or not, the name for catches wind. And after a dozen or so attempts to remind the people that she’s not actually a Lady, it becomes clear that her effort is futile at best, offensive at worst. They seek stability and it appears reminding them of her place, not the place they put her in, threatens that. 

Thus, she becomes _the Lady Valkyrie_. 

Of course there is another less noble reason the title sticks: Royal courting has always been, and likely will always be, the most beloved public spectacle. 

Of all the things that may change over time, she doubts that one ever will. After all, though it was long before her time, she still recalls the tales the people would tell, the odes they would recite, of the days when Lady Frigga courted Prince Odin.

So, yes, okay, she technically understands why people would assume as much was happening now. She would likely assume the same if she were on the outside looking in. She is the first one by his side when he sits on his throne and the last one to leave it. She is the one their people turn to when he is unable. And, most pointedly, she quite visibly visits his chambers every day – sometimes not leaving for hours on end – and is always tired and sweaty and quite pleased when she emerges. 

(She considers correcting the very wrong misconception, but thinks better when she realizes they would only think of training as an innuendo for more salacious acts.) 

So, yes, she _understands_ , but that doesn’t mean she needs to acknowledge it. Because acknowledging as much would mean admitting she’s allowing herself to be courted.

  
  


The thing is, she could have him if she wanted. 

It isn't a revelation that suddenly hits her. She'd have to be blind for it to be seeing as he's made it rather obvious time after time. Hell, at this point she's not sure how much more obvious he could be. 

Still, the thought comes to her one evening when they're handing out the rationed meals for dinner. She looks up just as he does and their eyes meet for a moment and he smiles at her, so big and bright that it feels almost like sunshine raining down on her. She rolls her eyes and looks back down, but smiles a little. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his grin grow before he goes back to work. 

It isn’t the first time she’s been in a position to have someone if she wanted, but somehow this thing lingering between them feels different. 

Probably because it’s so far removed from anything she had on Sakaar, when forming any sort of connection with anyone was out of the question. Connecting with anyone, after all, would have meant allowing herself to feel anything for anyone, which in itself would have meant allowing herself to feel anything at all. 

And what she had before Sakaar… belongs to another version of herself.

It’s different now, here, with him.

They pass each other in the corridors, her on the way to retrieving more rations, him returning with his arms full. And though it’s only been minutes since they’ve been apart, his whole face lights up a bit when they cross paths, as if he were being reunited with her for the first time in eons. It’s so bright and genuine that it warms her slightly.

“Your majesty,” she says, nodding at him as she passes. 

He nods back, keeping his seriousness so overly formal it circles back to playful. “Lady Valkyrie.”

And though he clearly says it as a joke, there’s something about the way he says it – this titled title that passes as her name – that she feels like she’s been struck by lightning again. It’s so distracting that it takes her three whole moments to realize that being called Lady almost felt… okay. At least when it came from him. 

Fuck, she thinks as she loads her arms with rations, she is absolutely going to have him.

  
  


He’s only mildly surprised when she comes to his chambers unannounced, as if part of him, like her, knew this was coming. Still, his eye widens and his feet shuffle, as if he’s suddenly unsure how to even stand in her presence, and it takes her back to Sakaar. Back when he constantly sought her out. Back when she never thought a time would come when she sought him out. 

She takes advantage of his confusion and brushes past him and into the room, not allowing him the opportunity to deny her entrance (not that he would). She lingers there for a moment with her back to him, taking in the room as if it hasn’t only been a few short hours since she last saw it. As if it’s the first time she entered his chambers. Except it isn’t the first time and it looks exactly the way it did that afternoon, down to the remnants of the chair they broke during their most recent activities.

It’s boring and anticlimactic and… _comforting._

On Sakaar, she had all she needed to survive – a roof and endless alcohol and enough favor with the Grand Master to keep it that way. She never allowed herself to want for any more, because any more was something she could lose. But here, on this ship with too little space and even less alcohol and a man seeking her favor, she feels something almost akin to happiness. Because even with everything to lose, she's finally safe. Safe from Hela, safe from herself, and maybe even safe to want more.

And she does want more. 

His gaze stays on her and it occurs to her that she still hasn’t explained herself. Except she isn’t sure she has anything resembling an actual explanation other than her desire to be there with him. Yet, instead of vocalizing as much, she seeks out the single alcohol-filled crystal bottle in the room. 

Neglecting the glasses, she finally turns back to him and, with a suggestive smirk, she drinks a third of the bottle before she tosses it to him. "Tag," she says, her voice simultaneously husk and soft, sounding almost as if she's finally speaking for the first time in a very long time. "You're it."

He catches the bottle with an ease she sometimes forgets he's capable of – it really is godly the way he moves when he isn't bumbling around like an idiot – then, with his gaze locked on hers, he raises the bottle to his lips. 

And though it’s him who drinks, she finds it’s her throat that quivers. 

  
  


She isn't sure which of them moves first – if she does and he follows, or if he does and she gives in. 

It hardly matters, she thinks as she stands before him, ready for what comes next.

  
  


"Brunnhilde…" he mumbles, the name falling from his lips as smoothly as the lyrics to an ode, as if he were reciting a hymn just for her.

When exactly he realized who she is, she isn't sure. But if his claim that he had once wanted to be a Valkyrie held any truth then it isn't surprising that he would know. It's even less surprising that the son of Frigga would know of Brunnhilde, the leader of the Valkyrior, the Chooser of the Slain. The Queen always did hold a soft spot for her.

No, the surprise, the one she thinks neither of them expect, comes the way she stiffens when the name comes from his lips. 

It has been an entire lifetime since she last heard that name and the moment he says it, it reminds her of everything that once was. Of who she was. Of the woman who didn’t need to run and drink and try to forget all that she had lost. Of when she wasn’t _the Lady Valkyrie_ but merely one of the Valkyrior. It reminds her of the days when her sisters lived and thrived and stood beside her in honor and battle. When life was simpler. Easier. Happier. 

But more than that, the way he looks at her, with his soft blue eye full of something she isn’t ready to acknowledge, reminds her of when _she_ would say her name. 

Her back presses against the door as she steps back, desperate to create as much distance between her and that name as possible. “No,” she says, willing him to understand it without words. “I can’t.” 

She may have come a long way from their first meeting in the junkyard and she’s done running away from her past, but _that_ she can’t do. Can’t take the name of the person she used to be. Can’t be the person who lost everything that ever meant anything to her. 

He blinks and suddenly that look disappears. He nods. “As you wish,” he says and leaves it at that.

She isn’t sure if he actually understands the words that don’t form or just that she isn't ready for what even she cannot deny is forming between them. 

  
  


That night she dreams of fair hair and blue eyes and a smile that makes her hard heart melt. 

She wakes unsure of which she hates most: the dream itself or that it can't be a reality.

  
  


They don’t have much time once the attack happens.

She runs through the corridors, rushing any citizens she can find towards the escape pods already filled beyond capacity. She hears vaguely hears Hulk roar and catches the briefest flash of green before it disappears around a corner, likely seeking battle against whatever has attacked. Heimdall wasn’t near the escape pods so she assumes he must be with him. Lackey too. Which only leaves – 

A hand wraps around her forearm from behind and tugs her back. She spins around, dragonfang in hand, only to be met with Thor. A brief apology flashes across his face and he loosens his hand but doesn’t let her go. 

“Go with them,” he says, his head tilting back in the direction she came from. The direction of the escape pods. “They need someone to protect them in case.”

In case he doesn’t survive, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to. 

She shakes her head. “It should be you. _You_ are the one they need. After all of the loss they’ve suffered, they can’t lose you too,” she explains. “I am far more useful to them in your place. It is a Valkyrie’s duty to protect the throne.”

“There is no throne without them,” he says. “Without the people, there is no Asgard. Protect _them_.”

The ship takes another blow, rocking them slightly. His grip tightens around her arm, holding him to her. He looks down at her with almost desperation, and she knows there’s no time left to argue. She nods and he gives her one brief, tight smile before he releases her arm. He turns to leave but before he can take a step away, she pulls him back, refusing to loosen her grip on him. Whether she does it to hold him steady or herself, she isn’t quite sure. 

"Don't die,” she tries to keep her voice as neutral as she can, but she knows it’s pointless because she doubts her eyes can hide _her_ desperation. 

He makes no promises and she isn’t so foolish to expect one. Instead he takes one step forward, closing the remaining space between them. His thumb brushes against her bare cheek, almost as if wiping away the tears she doesn’t shed. He brings the finger to his lips. 

A kiss goodbye. 

Then, as swift as lightning, he’s gone.

  
  


It happens in the blink of an eye. 

One moment she’s tending to the wounds on a young boy, the next he’s vanished, leaving nothing more than a pile of dust in his place. At first she thinks the attack comes as a warning shot, demanding the Asgardians leave the planet their ship crashed on. But the cries from their people make it apparent that whatever is attacking them is some other foreign enemy. 

Dragonfang in hand, she runs through the town, ignoring the people calling to her, asking her what in Odin’s name is happening to their loved ones, because if she can just find whatever monster is doing this then she can do something to stop it. She can protect them. Save them.

So she runs and runs, searching for something – _anything_ – to fight. Yet the only thing that meets her is death and dust and despair. And there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

Turns out that it doesn't matter which side of things she stands on – the King was wrong to trust his Valkyrie to protect his people. 

History repeats itself. 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m glad you’re alive too,” he says and leaves it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a lot of in-canon alcoholism, as well as abandonment issues. It's easily the heaviest chapter of the whole fic.

She has no choice but to assume he too vanished to dust. If he even survived that long. 

It isn’t easy distracting herself from the sole thought running through her head over and over, and it’s especially difficult doing it sober. But after all of the pain, all of the loss she’s suffered, she doesn’t have the capacity to lose any more. Especially not now, not this time, not when she has so many others turning to her for guidance in the midst of _their_ loss. 

If she does, if she allows herself to feel anything, she doubts she will ever be able to stop.

So as the people mourn those who perished, as they begin to mourn all those they’ve lost, she doesn’t allow herself the luxury. 

  
  


His voice finds her before she can begin to seek voyage to Midgard. 

“Lady Valkyrie,” the voice echoes gently in her mind, enveloping her in the same gentle comfort she feels in his presence. Still, it’s odd, hearing him without him being present. Had she not already been aware of his powers, she likely would have assumed she’d gone mad.

“Heimdall,” she responds, not entirely clear on how this works. “You survived after all.”

If she’s not meant to speak out loud, he doesn’t correct her. “Aye.” 

“Good. I’m glad.”

She thinks she can actually feel him smiling. “Careful, Lady Valkyrie, or else people might begin to think you’re one for sentiments.” 

“It can be our secret,” she says, too relieved to even pretend to be annoyed. Yet any joy she feels at his survival is only fleeting. “Heimdall. Something happened. I’m not entirely sure how, but the people –”

"I know.”

He fills her in on everything she missed – their initial battle with Thanos and Loki’s death, their trip to Nidavellir and their battle on Midgard. The Snap. How half the universe’s population is gone – just gone – with the literal snap of some purple goon’s fingers. None of it makes any sort of sense. Then again, neither does anything else she’s witnessed. 

“And Thanos? Where is he now?”

“Dead,” Heimdall answers. “Thor beheaded him.”

Her heart pauses for the slightest of moments. “Thor?”

“Aye,” he says. “Rest easily, Lady Valkyrie. Our King lives,”

She doesn’t expect the wave of relief to wash over her but, despite every other horrible thing, she finds herself releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Heimdall’s words free her from the fear she hadn’t allowed herself to have, because he survived. 

Thor’s _alive_. 

“How do we find you?”

There is a pause before Heimdall answers, “We will come to you. If fate smiles upon us, we should arrive by nightfall.”

She nods though she knows he can’t see her. “We will be ready.”

For a moment, she thinks he will say something else. She isn’t sure if it’s because this communication link between them allows her a door into his mind as well, or because she knows there is more that needs to be said. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter because he adds nothing more than a farewell.

Afterwards, she cannot shake the feeling that though it’s him who will make the journey, it’s him who worries for her. 

  
  


True to his word, a Midgardian ship lands right before nightfall. It’s new and undamaged from battle and, most importantly, functioning. It isn’t particularly large, maybe only half the size of the ship they left Asgard on. Though she supposes they also left Asgard with four times the number of people remaining now. 

The Asgardians swarm up the moment the doors open and Thor and Heimdall emerge. Several stop to see Thor, thankful that despite all they’ve lost, the battle with Thanos did not cost them to lose another King in such a short period of time. Others move right past him, too jaded to even care about what they still have, and likely desperate to find proper shelter, maybe even get first pick at whatever rations this new ship holds. She alone stands at the back of the crowd, ensuring that every single one of their few remaining people board before she does. 

It only takes him moments for his eyes – plural, he has two of them again – to find hers, although it takes him exponentially longer to reach her. She stands there, watching him, waiting, as he slowly makes his way through the crowd towards her. But as he approaches, her stomach turns. 

He’s different, she can already tell. There’s a heaviness in the way he walks, as if the weight of everything was pummeled onto him. Something happened, she thinks, something Heimdall neglected to tell her. Because the closer Thor gets to her, the less he resembles the person who left her. 

“So,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest when he stands before her, “You didn’t die.”

It’s a rather pathetic attempt at a joke, she knows, but she’s never had to be particularly smooth to elicit any sort of pleasant reaction from her. He’s always shone before her, as if merely being in her presence were enough to lighten any darkness he may have felt.

This time though, he smiles in a way that she thinks he truly means to be genuine but doesn’t reach his eye (eyes?). And, for a brief moment, she thinks he only resembles a shell of the person he was before he left for battle. As if, on top of erasing half of their surviving people, Thanos snapped away half of Thor, leaving him physically alive but emotionally dusted. 

It’s terrifying, she thinks. Not only because he doesn’t deserve it, but because if he with all his warmth and happiness cannot handle the loss and pain then what chance do the rest of them stand?

She isn’t sure if he senses her fears, but his face softens as his hand rests on her forearm and she feels that familiar flicker of lightning strike her. She holds onto his forearm, trying to close the space between them as much as possible in the very public circumstances. He squeezes her arm once, gently.

“I’m glad you’re alive too,” he says and leaves it at that.

There’s something else there in his words, something much more powerful, something she thinks neither of them are fully prepared to actually acknowledge yet. Because if they were to, they would never be able to let go of each other. Not after all of this. 

So they don’t, and he releases her and they return to the ship in silence. 

  
  


Despite the relative peace that comes with it, the first month after they land on Midgard (Earth, not Midgard, _Earth_ ) is the hardest yet. At least for the people. Because while she and Thor and Heimdall have their hands full handling all the diplomacy that comes with being granted refuge, their people have nothing to occupy their time except for their thoughts. Thoughts that finally have the time to comprehend just how much they have been through and how much they’ve lost in such a short period of time. 

She knows because they come to her in the middle of the night, broken and crying.

There isn’t much she can do to ease the pain of losing your whole world. It’s a long and hard battle that only you can face when you’re ready. But until they’re ready, she can at least help distract them from their thoughts. 

“You want to teach them to fight?” Thor asks when she corners him after a full day of diplomacy meetings.

She nods. “Just the basics,” she explains. “Enough to help them not feel so helpless.”

He’s silent for a moment and then another. It’s only when she begins to grow frustrated by his silence that he sighs and says that if she thinks it will be good for them then to _go ahead_. Which is the least useful thing he could have said. 

“What more would you have me say?” he asks when she pushes him on it, clearly frustrated and wanting to be done with the conversation. It only drives her anger further. 

“I don’t know, how about an offer to teach them? Or at least talk to them? They’re _your people_ , Thor. Or did you already forget you’re their King?”

There’s a beat and she almost thinks that she’s misstepped because she knows there’s no way he could have forgotten. They’re _his people_. They’re the most important thing to him now, after he’s lost so much. Being their King isn’t just something he does, it’s who he is now. He could never forget that. 

Which, she realizes a moment too late, is exactly the problem. 

“I think we both know I’ve already proven what sort of King I am.” 

He leaves it at that, walking away before she can say otherwise.

  
  


The following evening, once all her annoying diplomacy meetings have finished, she gathers as many Asgardians as she can and begins their training. 

It isn’t much, but if she can distract them from their pain for even the slightest of moments then it’ll be worth it.

  
  


Between Hela and Thanos and the Snap, there isn’t a single Asgardian left who hasn’t lost not one or two, but several dear to them. But without a funeral, without doing something – anything – to lay your loved ones to rest, it’s near impossible to find any sort of closure. She knows from experience. 

It takes three months to finalize everything before they can officially claim New Asgard as their home. Which means it takes three very long months for them to even have a place of their on for a funeral.

(She’s told the process is quick for Midg- _Earth_ standards. They were lucky, these otherwise unimportant Earthlings tell her, _the people of Earth owe a debt to Thor. If they didn’t then Asgardians wouldn’t be so easily welcomed,_ they all say as if Thor’s connection to Earth isn’t the sole reason they’re on this forsaken planet. As if any other connection Asgard had wasn’t already destroyed. As if New Asgard now owes them a debt rather than this being a debt Earth is fulfilling to Asgard.

It isn’t worth saying, Heimdall warns her without prompt. It will only cause problems their people cannot afford to pay.

She wasn’t going to. She isn’t so foolish when lives other than hers are on the line. But that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.)

So when it’s all said and done, when New Asgard is officially theirs and they have an actual place to call home, they hold a funeral for all the Asgardians who cannot claim Earth as home. It isn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination. Not only because it isn’t easy to have a funeral when there are no bodies to bury, but because saying goodbye means it’s truly over. Saying goodbye means releasing any hope that their love ones will return, that this nightmare will pass and they’ll wake up to a normal life on Old Asgard.

It means admitting that the ones they lost are really, truly gone. 

It isn’t easy, but it’s necessary because it’s the least they can do if they live when their family doesn’t.

  
  


She finds him after the funeral, long after everyone else has retired to mourn on their own. He stands alone on the Cliffside, clutching a bottle wrapped in brown paper. A very strong bottle, she guesses by how the salt in the air is tainted, and a small waft of alcohol hits her as she approaches.

He doesn’t face her when she takes her place beside him. _Good_ , she thinks, it’s easier to talk without a face to judge you. 

“The first time I fought Hela,” she says, her eyes firmly set on the sea, “When I went into battle with the Valkyrior, I didn’t only lose my warriors, I lost… everything. I didn’t know how to live without them. They were my family. My _sisters_.” 

It isn’t until she says the last word that she feels Thor’s gaze turn towards her, but she doesn’t return the gesture.

She keeps her eyes locked on the sea – the waves, strong and powerful and determined, crash into the land below them. She watches wave after wave attempt to scale the side of the cliff, never once making it close enough to so much as splash them. Yet it doesn’t matter how many times it fails, the waves come back, destroying themselves in the process. If they had any sense, they would travel the other direction, towards the vast, open sea. Towards freedom. 

They don’t though, probably because they’re waves and can’t even possess anything resembling sense. 

Eventually, he follows her gaze back to the sea. Without a word, he hands her his bottle and she takes it immediately, finding solace in the way the liquid burns her throat, desperate to feel anything other than the memories she’s brought back up. She knows she shouldn’t – it’s far too easy to fall back on old habits – but it’s easier this way. Though being numb may defeat the whole purpose of her seeking him out. 

“I didn’t take you as one for talking about your feelings,” he says at last, taking the mostly bottle back from her. 

She’s relieved he understands her offer, both because she doubts she would have been able to properly articulate it and because he’s still able to understand her without words. “I’m not,” she answers truthfully. “Perhaps if I had been, I wouldn’t have spent all those years on Sakaar. Perhaps I would have come home sooner.”

“Yes, well, you being on Sakaar saved Asgard.” 

She scoffs. “Or my being on Sakaar made Hela’s return all the easier. You may be the Allfather now, but it’s impossible for even you to know. Besides,” she adds, “I was of little use when the people needed me. I failed to protect them. I failed as a Valkyrie.”

A part of her expects him to immediately disagree. She thinks he would have had this discussion happened before the Snap, before Thanos. But here, now, on New Asgard, a country on foreign land with the population of a small town, he doesn’t and she’s grateful. It isn’t validation she seeks. No, it’s a warning. Because, ultimately, failing seems to be the most consistent trend in her life and he deserves to know that. 

Thor presses his lips together. “Forgive me if I misstep, but ever since I was a child, I always believed the Valkyrior were an extension of the throne,” he says, tailing off to finish the little alcohol that remains in the bottle. 

A particularly large wave makes contact with the cliffside and he closes his eyes as the impact lands, and he inhales the breeze that comes with it. Specks seawater splash their faces, but he seems too lost in thoughts to notice and she too focused on him to even care. He releases a breath, long and deep, as if he were attempting to return the breeze back to the sea, before he drops the bottle over the edge of the cliff. 

The waves swallow it before it can shatter. 

She waits for the bottle to resurface, to show any sign of life before floating off into the sea, but it doesn’t return. 

Then, when she finally looks back up, he meets her gaze and for the briefest moment she finally sees all of the pain and guilt behind his eyes.

“You only feel like you failed our people as a Valkyrie because I failed them as a King,” he says. And before she has a chance to even react, his expression changes, a wall comes up, and he plants a fake smile. He turns to leave. “Goodnight.”

She pulls him back. “Thor.”

He shakes his head and pulls his arm back, but she doesn’t yield. He presses his lips, the briefest amount of frustration breaking through the facade he’s put up. _Good_ , she thinks, because any real emotion is better than this pseudo-smile he’s giving her, even if she has to frustrate it out of him. 

Be frustrated, be angry, be something that’s real.

It may be hard, but it’s better than the alternative. 

But then he sighs and her world shifts. “Lady Valkyrie,” he says and though she doesn’t think he means to, she’s suddenly reminded of where her place is supposed to be. It _hurts._ And in the shock of the moment, she releases his arm. He takes two steps back, ensuring he’s out of her range before he repeats, “Goodnight.” 

He leaves without another word. 

  
  


The following morning, when he doesn’t come down for breakfast, she understands that it’s because he is in mourning – after all, he just said goodbye to his brother and so many of his people. So when the people look at her, their eyes filled with all the concerns they had planned to discuss with their King, she takes his place and listens to them. 

When he doesn’t show up for a meeting the following week, she thinks it’s because he still needs space to recover from all of the loss he’s suffered, so she does her best to take lead in his stead. It isn’t easy – she’s a warrior, not a politician – but thankfully it’s enough to suffice. 

Once or twice, even thrice, she can justify. But when it keeps happening, when it becomes apparent that this is becoming the new norm and not an exception, she decides enough is enough. 

“You need to get out,” she says as she pushes past his feeble attempt to deny her entrance into his hut and immediately wrinkles her nose when she’s met with the stench of stale beer in an unaired room. “And clean.”

“I’m fairly certain you cannot do both of those at the same time,” he says with that damned superficial cheeriness he puts on, as if he thinks putting on a smile will hide all the pain he is clearly going through. Though she isn’t sure if he’s trying to hide it from her or himself. 

“Then pick one and do it. Do something, anything, other than hiding away in here,” she snaps. “Thor, you don’t come into town, you don’t see your people, you don’t even train.”

He snorts. “Train for what? I don’t need to worry about my peripherals anymore, remember?” he says, tapping the side of his face next to that stupid fake eye. “Besides,” he says as he plops down into a chair and opens another beer, “I think I’ve already proven that I can’t protect them.”

She wants to snap, wants to punch him in the face and yell _So what? You lose one battle and that’s it? You just give up?_ because this can’t be it. This can’t be how it ends. How he lets go. Not after all he’s done to save his people, this can’t be how they lose him. 

But she doesn’t, because when she looks at him she can see past his faux-cheeriness, past this wall he’s putting up. Because when she looks at him, drowning in bottle after bottle, she sees the pain and loneliness and the desperation to avoid any reminders of everything lost. She sees it because it’s the same look she used to see when she saw her reflection at the bottom of an empty bottle. 

So she says nothing, too tired and too desperate to run away from the pain she thought she had already escaped.

  
  


For every ounce she pours into New Asgard and their people, Thor lets go a little more. The more he lets go, the more she has to hold on. 

Except the longer it goes on, the more she doubts she can hold onto Asgard and him. 

  
  


“I need a drink,” he says late one night when he comes to her door. “Have a drink with me.” As he stumbles past her, she’s hit with the same stench of stale beer she’s begun to associate him with. Not that she needs the smell to know he’s drunk. 

She frowns as he trips over his own feet on his way to her alcohol. “It seems to me you’ve had enough to drink for the both of us.”

Thor laughs and she tries not to focus on how hollow it sounds. “Clever,” he says, half slurring as he tips a bottle in her direction, splashing more than a few drops out onto the floor, before tossing it back, all but emptying it.

He tosses it to her. She catches it and puts it down on the table. 

“Thor,” she says, her voice as neutral as she’s able to control it under all the pain and anger. 

She takes a step towards him. He moves to step towards her but stumbles a little in the process, and she reaches to steady him but he catches himself before he collapses on her. He gives her an almost embarrassed smile. She suspects the smile doesn’t match the pain in his eyes, but he turns away before she can look, already searching for another bottle.

He needs help. Needs someone to lean on, someone to help pick up the pieces of him that are falling apart. And he needs it now because he’s only getting more and more fragile, and the weight of the guilt he carries only gets heavier and heavier. The longer he goes without some sort of help, the more he will break. 

She knows this to her core because she knows that it cannot be her. She can shoulder some of his weight, ease at least some of what is holding him down, but she cannot hold him up. Because if she tries, she will fall apart under the weight of them both.

“Thor, you need to leave.”

She says it firmly, but so softly that she almost expects him not to hear it. But he does and when he finally looks at her, his eyes tired and heavy, he only holds her gaze for a moment before he nods and she knows he understands. Even after all of this, he can understand her without words. It’s a relief, she thinks as he walks out the door, but even that is tainted with how much it hurts that it’s come to this. That these are the things she needs him to understand. 

  
  


The following morning, she pours away the remnants of her alcohol. 

It’s for the best, she thinks as she stands there, watching the earth soak away the last of the liquid. She’ll be sober enough for the both of them. 

  
  


“I thought a Valkyrie was always meant to be prepared for battle,” Heimdall says, a taunting glint in his eyes when she turns him away for their bi-weekly sparring session. 

She scoffs but leaves the door open for him as she returns inside to the dining table she’s converted into a desk. “And I thought you were supposed to be all seeing yet here you are, assuming I am available to train today.”

He follows her. “Who says I came to train? Am I not allowed to visit you otherwise?” he asks playfully. With him it’s impossible to know for sure, but she chooses to assume he only says it to tease her and not because he’s actually aware of her plans. 

Although, she realizes, if there’s anyone who can help her, it’s him. 

“Do you remember what we said when we left Old Asgard? That Asgard is not a place, it’s a people?” she asks, barely waiting before she continues because there’s no actual doubt he remembers. “What if we extended the definition of who is considered an Asgardian? If we are not defined by our land then who is to say that those born of Asgardian blood are the only Asgardians?”

Heimdall studies her. “Are you suggesting we open our doors?”

“I plan on doing more than suggesting.” 

She isn’t caught up on all the details of what happened in the years she was gone, but the Asgard she knew – the Asgard many people throughout the galaxies knew – was one that destroyed homes, one that pillaged wealth and burned any who dared oppose them. This could be their chance to make amends for that. 

When she lost everything, she had nowhere to go, nowhere to just _be_ , so she found herself on Sakaar because there were very few options for a person who claimed no people. But New Asgard could be that second option for someone else who needs a home – after all, Earth and Asgard were hardly the only places affected by Thanos’s Snap – and though she isn’t sure she would have taken that second choice, would have chosen a place like New Asgard over Sakaar, at least she would have had the option to go somewhere better. 

Somewhere that could help people. 

The details of the treaty Thor signed with Earth are filled with fancy words and legal nonsense, but from what she can tell, it guaranteed a land for all citizens of Asgard. And, as far as she can see, didn’t include any specific definition of what constitutes an Asgardian. 

“What do you think?” 

Heimdall stares off for a moment, and she isn’t sure if it’s to contemplate her suggestion or because he can see the outcome. Regardless, he nods. “It will be tricky,” he says. “The path won’t be as clear as we’d like, but it’s possible,” he explains. Then smiles softly. “It is a _good_ plan, Lady Valkyrie.”

She doesn’t allow herself to feel the implications of the title he bestowed upon her what feels like a lifetime ago. If she did, she might have to admit it’s become even less suitable than it ever was before, and she doesn’t have the will to do that just yet.

So instead she focuses on another word. “We?”

Heimdall grins smugly. “Aye, _we_. You didn’t think I actually came here to train, did you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course you didn’t.”

  
  


“I’m sorry,” Thor says the last night he comes to her door. He isn’t sober by any means, but she thinks it’s the closest he's been to in some time.

She doesn’t move from her doorway this time, refusing him entrance. “What for?”

“For not being the person I was supposed to be. For the people. And for you.”

He means it, she knows. It’s not the alcohol alone that intoxicates him, it’s the guilt. Guilt over not being able to protect his people, and over living when they do not. She knows because it isn’t a sentiment she’s unfamiliar with. After all, it wasn’t too long ago the tables were turned and it was him who needed her to sober up for Asgard’s sake. 

So she understands how much he means it – likely better than anyone else ever could – but the difference between them now is that she cannot bear his burden and hold herself together the way he was willing to once before. 

“Words mean little without action, Your Majesty,” she says softly, willing him to understand the unspoken. “Either find the strength to do it or let go. If not for your sake then for theirs.” 

For hers.

And for a brief moment, with him standing there before her, she allows herself a flicker of hope. Thinks he’ll raise his thumb and brush her cheek, giving her the touch she tells herself she doesn’t miss. That her words will strike him like lightning and he’ll find the strength to come back to his people. To her. 

It isn’t fair of her to want it, not after how far and long she ran away. It isn’t fair of her to expect him to do in a few measly years what took her centuries to do. It isn’t, she knows, but she does because he was supposed to be the best of them. He’s supposed to be stronger than her.

Except maybe he isn’t strong enough. Not anymore.

Thor doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

The silence speaks for itself. 

  
  


With the exception of a monthly visit to restock on his supplies, Thor stops stumbling into town after that, and she stops trying to bring him back.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by the people, of course. She doesn’t expect it to. How could it? He was their King ( _is_ their King) – he was the one who saved them when Odin passed and Hela reigned and Asgard burned. He was supposed to be their hope, their one chance at holding onto anything resembling the world they once had. 

And then they lost him too, leaving them with nothing other than her. 

Her without him, specifically. 

Without a King, there is no Court, pseudo or not, left to give her any sort of authority over. She isn’t the one being courted by their King, isn’t even a Lady of the Court. Just her, a single Valkyrie of the legendary Valkyrior who was dubbed _the_ Valkyrie because they thought she came back to save them. Except she’s not even sure that still holds its meaning when she failed to save them when they needed her again. When she failed to save their King. 

A Valkyrie is a soldier, one sworn to protect the throne at the cost of anything. It was a cost she thought she was okay with paying this time because this time was different. Because Thor was not Odin. Because while Odin hid behind his power, Thor used his to fight alongside her. Until one day he couldn’t fight anymore and she realized she couldn’t actually pay the price. 

And if she can’t do that then how can she ever expect the people to see her as their Valkyrie? 

  
  


“Time is relative,” Heimdall often reminds her. “Asgardian life is long and the years are fleeting. This will pass.”

He says it every time things get difficult. Whenever there is a shortage of food, whenever Earthlings protest the Asgardians right to find refuge on Earth, whenever she thinks there’s no way they’ll be able to last much longer. He says it with so much confidence and certainty that even with how much the words annoy her, she knows he’s right. If there’s anyone whose word she can trust regarding their future, it’s probably the man who is all seeing. 

Sometimes it’s only that which keeps her going. Because though the months may drag on and though some days may feel like they will never end, she knows these years will be nothing more than a verse in the ode of their lives. A very hard, life altering verse, but a verse nevertheless. 

It may take time to get there, but they will prosper again. It will not be the same as the life they had once upon a time, but it will be a life. They will be safe and stable and Asgard will live on.

Even if its King does not. 

  
  


She resents Banner when he reappears in their life. 

No, that isn’t fair because he doesn’t actually come back into her life. He could care less about her. It’s only Thor’s life that he bothers to disrupt. She’s only a pit stop along the way. 

It shouldn’t bother her, but it does because they were friends once upon a time. Maybe not in this weird half-Hulk, half-Banner way form he takes now, but he was the closest thing she had to a friend on Sakaar. He was there when she returned to Asgard. When it burned and when her people died. 

Then he got back to Earth and never once looked back. Not even when Asgard desperately needed any sort of help, not when Thor needed help, and sure as hell not when she needed help. He just went back to whatever life he had before – went back to being happy – while they suffered.

So when she sees him smiling at her in this weird mish-mash of a form as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, she hates him. It isn’t fair, but in that moment fair is the furthest thing from her mind, because she _wants_ to hate him. So she does. She hates him for being so happy when her people are struggling to just survive. She hates him and she wants him gone because it was so much easier to ignore the betrayal, the anger, when he wasn’t right in front of her. 

She gets what she wants quick enough, because he’s only there to get Thor for whatever half-baked scheme the Earthlings concocted this time. So after all these years of nothing, he comes to New Asgard, takes Thor, and leaves all over again.

And when it’s all said and done, she finds she doesn’t know what she resents him for more: for abandoning Thor in the first place, for taking Thor away from his people now, or for leaving her behind when he does it. 

  
  


“I can do this,” Thor says when he calls. “The Avengers can do this. We can bring them back. Bring our people back.”

She isn’t irresponsible to believe him when it comes to this, and she certainly won’t believe in those random Earthlings she’s never so much as seen. She knows this is a fool’s game that will only end in their hopes being crushed again. If there had been a way to bring their people back, a way to bring everyone back, it would have been discovered by now. 

But something in his voice stops her from fighting him on it. Because there’s a life in it, a genuine hope that she hasn’t heard since they first left Asgard. Because for the first time in five years, he truly believes he can help his people. He can do the one thing he needs to do to feel like their King again. 

She bites her lip, contemplating her words, before she says, “Then do it. Do what you need to do, Thor, but then come home. Your people need their King.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she chooses to imagine him nodding. 

Fate will tell whether or not his hope has any merit, and whether or not her hope in him is a fool’s errand.

  
  


By some grace she will never understand, the Earthlings’ half-baked scheme works: the Snap is undone and their people return. Not all of them, but enough to restore the hope New Asgard had lost when it was done. And with their hope comes the one thing she had hoped for all along: Thor. 

He isn’t exactly the same man they followed to Earth, but it’s the closest he’s resembled to him in years. So she falls for the fool’s errand and allows herself to bask in victory of her hope, because now things will finally return to the way they should be. 

It’s a mistake, because of course it is. She should have known better. After all, losing anything that has ever mattered to her seems to be a specialty she excels in. 

“Thor, your people need a King,” she reminds him as they stand on the edge of the very cliff where they said goodbye to some of the very Asgardians that have since returned to them. She reminds him in the hopes that he too will return to them. 

He doesn’t meet her eye when he tells her that they already have one and it’s so ridiculous that she doesn’t even try to hide her laughter, because the only thing more absurd that calling a Valkyrie a _Lady_ is calling her a _King_. She’s sworn to protect the throne, however that’s defined now, not rule from it. It’s one thing to lift the burden of the King, another to replace him entirely. 

But then she meets his gaze and he says _Your Majesty_ and she realizes he’s serious. And in that brief moment, without words, she thinks she understands that he wants her to know that the throne was always meant to be hers. Perhaps not as King, but ever since they left Asgard, ever since they took the voyage to Earth, he had always intended to share his throne with her.

It would almost be romantic if she weren’t so furious with him for leaving. 

Yet as his gaze lingers on her, against her better judgement, she wonders if he will close the space between them. If he’ll reach up and stroke her cheek the way he had once upon a time when she wasn’t ready for the offer of the throne. And as much as she hates herself for thinking it, she’s glad he doesn’t try because she would have stopped him. 

She keeps her distance when he shakes her hand in an absurdly formal manner all things considered, refusing to allow him anything resembling familiarity. Because after all she’s lost, she cannot allow herself the luxury to think he was hers to lose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this will be a happy ending. I just had to deal with the mess Endgame left us with first.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your Majesty,” he says, the playfulness so bright in his voice that for a moment even she can’t help but smile. “Don’t die.”
> 
> She knows what he means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, i know it has been almost a full year since i last updated but this chapter was really hard to write. hopefully the length makes up for the time it took.
> 
> special shout out to [ephemeralgrime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralgrime/pseuds/ephemeralgrime) for being my sprinting buddy. who knows how long this would have taken if it wasn't for her.

Sometimes she dreams of the Valkyrior. Of her sisters, the famed warriors charged with guarding the throne, in all their wonder.

It’s not the battles they fought she dreams of, however, but rather of the _Asgard_ her sisters lived in — the one that was so beautifully designed that everyone simply chose to look past the many bleeding flaws. She dreams of the laughter they shared, of the love she felt, of an Asgard where she belonged without question. Where they all belonged. Yet, no matter how hard she tries, it isn’t their faces or voices or smiles she dreams of.

She doesn’t dream of them but rather the _memory_ of a them that once was in a world that no longer exists.

If that were not horrible enough — the torture of seeing them without ever truly _seeing_ them — every time the dream ends, every time she opens her eyes, she wake to the very Asgard they will never see.

It’s an Asgard she’s rebuilding from the ground up — one that is so broken and jagged at every rough edge, but somehow the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. It’s an Asgard that is learning from its past and determined not to repeat it, one that is slowly being filled with children who will know no other Asgard. One that holds the promise of a new life. It’s an Asgard she rules, one where she lives and works amongst the people, because there are no Valkyrior in this newly created Asgard.

There is just her, a single Valkyrie playing King.

And the more she puts into this new Asgard, the more invested she becomes in becoming the King they deserve, the more her past begins to feel like nothing more than a vague dream she had once upon a time. So the longer she reigns, the more it feels like she loses everything that once defined her. Because if she is King then she cannot, by very definition, also be a Valkyrie.

The years that follow become simultaneously the fastest yet longest of her life. It isn’t just the workload — it’s the way she buries herself in the work, desperate to keep her mind focused on what needs to be done so that she doesn’t have time to think about anything else throughout her day.

Then the day ends and she returns to a house so empty it can only be filled with thoughts — thoughts of the past and the tattoo on her forearm she keeps covered. Of the present and her place as a King with a single flimsy claim to the throne. And though she wants nothing more than to avoid it, sometimes, when she has nothing left to distract her from it, she thinks about Thor and what could have been had she not stepped away.

Had he not left.

Had she stopped him.

Some nights, particularly the ones that follow a day of training with Heimdall, the Fates smile upon her and she returns to her bed, too tired to do anything but sleep. But no good fortune comes to her without cost. Because with sleep come the dreams of the past, forcing her to wake with the even more thoughts she wants to escape — _needs_ to escape — if not into the sky as far and fast as she possibly can go, then into the depths of the very bottles she swore off. Into the very thing that she knows can break her down all over again.

She’s suffocating, overwhelmed and practically alone, and so she tells herself that the need to get away, if only for a moment, is just to breathe. And she can breathe here just as well as she can anywhere else, so that’s all she needs to do — breathe. If she can breathe, she can focus, and if she can focus, she can work. And she needs to work.

So she breathes and tries her damndest not to focus on how what she really needs — what she really wants — is for him to come home.

After a time, the self-defense classes she began as a distraction evolve and take a life of their own. A few of the more advanced students start their own program training the youngest in the hopes that the child won’t feel the same helplessness their parents once faced. Others begin training the refugees-turned-Asgardians, passing on the power to protect themselves so that they too can sleep peacefully.

This program she began on a whim grows and branches out until she’s hardly needed.

Still, she attends their meetings, sometimes to train them but other times to practice herself. Because even though the best amongst them would hardly fare against her at full strength, training with anyone other than Heimdall, whose movements are almost as familiar to her as her own, prove to be a test in their own way. It also provides her a break from the mundane day-to-day work (all this damned paperwork) that comes with being King.

It seemed far more glamorous when Odin did it. Though she isn’t sure if it was just another one his golden covered shams or if ruling from absolute power truly is easier.

“The Valkyrior training in public,” Heimdall says as he approaches her after a particularly intense session. “A timeless tradition.”

She rolls her eyes, very specifically ignoring the comparison to her sisters. The public displays the Valkyior would perform were only that — displays. Merely another way for Odin to showcase his power through them. But their true training was done in private, hidden away where their enemies could not witness.

“Aye,” Heimdall nods, a gentle smile still on his lips when she reminds him of such. “But it was still quite the spectacle,” he says. “Your Sisters would be proud if they could see you now.”

“Liar,” she says, because even his powers cannot cross beyond life. Still. “Thank you for pretending.”

Heimdall smiles almost playfully at her. “Lying to my King would be an act of treason.”

She scoffs, which only seems to amuse him further. “Did you need something or were you just here for the spectacle?”

His amusement fades and, just like that, she knows whatever he has to say will change things. “Aye,” he says slowly. “I have good news, Your Majesty. I have located the missing Asgardians.”

She always knew that not all of their people were on Old Asgard when Ragnarok happened. Beyond being a key example of that herself, it wasn’t uncommon for Asgardians to vacation, or even move between the Nine Realms or beyond.

However, any attempts Heimdall made to locate them over the years had been futile. And perhaps it had been a cruel decision, but she had to prioritize New Asgard and its citizens first and foremost.

“You are sure?” She asks when Heimdall tells her about a pocket colony of Asgardians on Sivos, a planet so far isolated that they may not even know of New Asgard.

He nods. “Certain.”

She frowns and thinks of the Earth ship she’ll have to take. Anything advanced by Earth’s standards would still be behind Sakaar’s standards, much less Old Asgard’s. It will likely take her a month, if not longer, to reach there.

“You’ll need to stop by D’Bari,” Heimdall says. “That should only take you a few days. Then Thor can be here within the week.”

Without her permission, her breath hitches and she stares at Heimdall as if he’d just referred to himself as Odin. “Thor left,” she says slowly. “He doesn’t want to be here. Why drag him back?”

It cannot be that easy, she thinks despite herself. Him coming back cannot be as simple as just stopping by somewhere and asking him nicely. Thor _left_. How can Heimdall not understand that she cannot merely bring him back. That isn’t how this works.

Right?

Heimdall’s expression softens slightly, and she glares back, refusing his sympathy, especially over this. He sighs. “Even if fate smiles upon you —” which they both know it rarely does “—You will be gone for at least a few months. We will need someone to act as King in the interim.”

“What about you?”

He snorts. “No, I’m afraid not.”

She purses her lips in annoyance. “Wish I had known that was an option.”

“You’d still have done it even if you had.”

She doesn’t press it, too afraid to ask if he knows something she doesn’t. Too afraid to hear the very same answer Thor had given her when he left — she’s a leader. And though leading an army is hardly the same as rebuilding an entire civilization from the ground up, it’s who she is.

It’s who she’s always been.

It’s all she’s ever known.

She was born and bred to lead, so maybe it’s easier for everyone if she just accepts who she’s meant to be.

She departs two days later.

Just as Heimdall said, she finds Thor in the D’Bari star system.

Specifically, she finds him hiding behind a tree.

He takes one look at her and immediately looks around her. For what, she has no idea. Before she even has the chance to ask what the Valhalla he is doing, he shushes her and gently tugs her arm, nudging her into his poor excuse for a hiding spot.

“Were you followed?” he asks in a hushed whisper. “Did anyone see you?”

She frowns, equal parts confused and offended. “Of course not. But why does that even matter? We’re basically out in the open.”

He nods seriously and then mumbles to himself something about still having a chance. Then stops suddenly and looks at her, as if he’s only just realized that it really doesn’t make sense for her to be there. But he only gets as far as opening his mouth before a green blur tackles him. Thor immediately takes an exaggerated step back, as if the blow actually had any sort of impact on him.

“Tag!” the D’Bari child exclaims before letting him go and running off. “You’re it!”

Thor tries to call out that it doesn’t count because he was distracted, but he’s only met with the sound of childish laughter. He looks back at her for just a moment before he says, “I’ll be right back,” and jogs off in the direction of the laughter.

He’s changed since she last saw him. Though he’s not quite in the shape he was when she first met him, he's clearly making his way back. His beard and hair are cleaned up and that horrible fake eye is gone. But the biggest change is in the way he carries himself, as if the weight on his shoulders is not quite as heavy as it was before.

She knows it means he’s healing, that he made the right choice when he left.

The right choice for him at least.

A part of her is furious at him for it. Because while he’s been doing that, she’s been the one carrying the weight he left behind on Earth. She’s been dealing with political asylums and developing economies and balancing food supplies. Being the King he was always supposed to be. And she wants to be mad because it should be the other way around — with her running around and him taking care of New Asgard.

But another part of her thinks she has already been there. Already tried to escape the pain and ramifications of a brutal battle — already run away instead of facing her problems — and that version of herself is not something she particularly wants to return to.

Besides, maybe Thor needed to run away so that he could be the King he needs to be.

(The King, she doesn't let herself think, she needs him to be.)

That evening, after the children have gone home for dinner, he comes to her holding two cups of what she imagines is supposed to be the D’Bari version of coffee. It’s purple, but it’s hot and smells of something that has been roasted, and even has a hint of something sweet. It’s hardly the drink she craves at that moment, but she supposes that’s probably the reason she needs this one instead.

“It's time for me to return home, isn’t it?” Thor doesn’t look at her, but he says it so casually that she thinks he’s known since that moment behind the tree.

She follows his gaze to a group of D’Bari teenagers clamored around a bench, doing a horrid job of trying to sneakily pass around what she assumes is a bottle of alcohol. For a brief moment she remembers the first time she snuck a bottle of cheap mead with her sisters, convinced that they were young and invincible. Then remembers all the nights she drowned herself in alcohol, desperate to numb the pain of realizing that no one is ever truly invincible.

She takes a sip of her purple coffee, and allows herself a moment to relish the way it burns her tongue, a physical reminder that she’s here. Alive. “It is,” she says, forcing the memory aside. “Your people need you.”

He laughs, soft and sad. “I’ve hardly proven myself a worthy leader for them. They’d be fools to want me back.”

“Yeah, well, a Valkyrie who failed her duties didn’t exactly earn me any favors, but I did it.”

Thor finally turns and looks at her. “The people love you," he says quickly, almost defiantly. "As they should. No one thinks you failed, Brun-”

He catches himself before he can finish the word, but her breath still hitches. He coughs in a way she thinks is supposed to diffuse the sudden tension. It doesn’t, but she can hardly fault him for the blunder — it is her name after all, and it isn’t as if he has any other one to call her by.

No, that isn’t true.

He could easily call her _Valkyrie_ just as the other Asgardians do. After all, it has been her identifier ever since she returned to Asgard. Ever since she met him. (“You’re a Valkyrie,” he said to her on Sakaar. A Valkyrie. Merely one of the Valkyrior.) It would only make sense for him to think of her as such. Especially after all these years without ever saying her name.

But it seems that isn’t the case.

To him, it appears, she isn’t just a Valkyrie — she is Brunnhilde.

It means something.

And that’s something she definitely does not want to think about.

“The people accept me,” she says as she turns her gaze back to the now laughing teenagers. “There’s a difference.”

“They adore you,” he insists. “Do you truly think so little of yourself?”

She scoffs. “Do you truly think so highly of me?”

When she turns to meet his gaze, he has that _look_ on his face, the same one he had the last time they were together, when the tables were turned and he was the one leaving her. That one that makes her feel as if he’s torn past her armor, stripped her of every pretense she’s put up, revealing the most vulnerable part of herself she’d thought she’d hidden away.

It’s the look that makes her want to reveal it to him.

“Surely,” he says, and though it’s barely above a whisper, in that moment, it’s the only sound in the universe, “By now you know exactly what I think of you."

There is no pressure there in his words. It’s merely a fact. After all, he left his throne to her in his absence. If nothing else, that alone shows how much he respects her. Trusts her. Still, she would have to be deaf to not hear the deeper meaning of his words. To not hear the things neither of them have acknowledged in years.

Probably because it has been years since he left her.

It isn’t fair how easily he can do this, even now — _especially_ now — when he was the one who left. It isn’t fair, but it isn’t surprising because it’s _Thor_. He was the one who found her when all she knew was the pain that came with losing people. When all she knew, all she could even imagine, was how to be lost.

He didn’t save her, but he was there when she decided to save herself. He was the one who helped ignite the spark that she used to light her way home. Him, Thor, the God of Thunder whose smiles would shine as bright as the sun and make her feel just as warm. He was the one who was supposed to stay.

Except then he left.

Just like everyone else.

So it isn’t fair because he shouldn’t be allowed to just _look_ at her and make her feel like this all over again. But more than that, she shouldn’t be allowed to want it.

If he’s phased by her lack of response, he doesn’t show it. She isn’t sure if that’s because he thinks he’s crossed a line or because he doesn’t think his words struck any sort of chord with her. Either way she’s grateful for the topic change when he asks, "You're not coming back with me, are you?"

It isn’t really a question, but still, she answers _no_ , she isn’t.

She finally turns her gaze away from him again. The space before them is empty at last, the group of D’Bari teenagers having finally abandoned their post, leaving behind nothing but the bench and the presumably empty bottle. She takes her last sip of her now cold drink, and focuses on the setting sun just barely visible over the horizon and the way the fading light gives way to the promise of chilly night.

She fills him in on what Heimdall reported to her about the Asgardian colony on Sivos. By the time the news of Ragnarok reached them, they likely would have assumed everyone perished with their planet. They are so far out from Earth that it is likely they never heard of New Asgard. They have the right to know, and to make the choice of whether or not claim New Asgard as their home.

She explains all of this without ever explaining why it has to be her who goes.

The roles could easily be reversed — he could be the one who wanders the stars in search of their lost people while she stays on Earth and continues to act as King. The roles probably should be reversed considering she made a promise when she accepted the title. Even before that, she made a promise when she reclaimed her role as Valkyrie in order to protect Asgard, no matter how it’s defined. She knows it and he knows it.

He doesn’t mention it and neither does she.

“I’ll miss you,” he says instead, so casually, so naturally that she laughs.

“You did fine without me all this time.”

“What makes you think I didn’t miss you then?”

She could say it was because he left. It would hardly be uncalled for. But she doesn’t because making him feel guilty won’t change the past. It certainly won’t help his ability to stay sober now. He left because he needed to for him.

Just like she needs to leave for her now.

“You should contact Heimdall,” she says instead. “He knows to expect you.”

Thor nods, hardly phased by her aversion to his question, as if he never expected an answer from her. He always did have a tendency of reminding her of where he stands without any expectation in return.

But when she finally turns to leave, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against her forearm, sending lightning strikes to her core. “Your Majesty,” he says, the playfulness so bright in his voice that for a moment even she can’t help but smile. “Don’t die.”

She knows what he means.

The days stretch into weeks as she soars through the skies in search of her missing people. Weeks she spends in solitude, only stopping by the occasional planet to refuel and restock on supplies. Weeks and weeks she is left alone with nothing more than the thoughts she can longer escape no matter what she does.

_Time is relative_ , she reminds herself of the words Heimdall once told her. _This will pass_ , she tells herself when she wakes alone in her ship, her mind spinning from dreams of the faceless Valkyrior. Because time _is_ relative, and though the memories haunt her, she isn’t living in her past. She isn’t abandoning Asgard or her duties. It isn't running away if she's left to help her people.

It isn’t running if she left to be a Valkyrie.

Gone are the days when the Valkyrior were a legion of warriors, an elite force whose very name struck fear in the hearts of enemies. Gone are the days when being a Valkyrie was a badge of honor. Of glory. Gone are the days when being a Valkyrie meant living and dying for the throne. Those days died the moment Hela defeated them. And she hardly has any intention of reviving them now.

Instead she thinks back to that first week after Asgard burned, to what Heimdall told her what a Valkyrie meant to the people now, what they see it as now — a savior. A hero. A Valkyrie is someone who comes to her people’s rescue when they need it, someone who helps them when they’ve lost their home, when they have nowhere else to go. Someone who serves the throne by serving the people. _That_ is what it means to be a Valkyrie now.

So she does what she has to do to keep the Valkyrie name alive. Because if she stops, if she fails her duties, the title ceases to hold any meaning and becomes nothing more than a poor substitute for a name. And if she stops being a Valkyrie — being _the_ Valkyrie — then the Valkyrior becomes nothing more than an old legend.

Her sisters — her beloved — become nothing more than the faceless dreams that haunt her and her alone.

According to the readings on the ship, it takes her nearly sixty Earth days to reach the colony on Sivos, though it almost feels much longer, the solitude in such a large vessel nearly driving her mad.

The colony is small, consisting of may be only a few dozen people, and is located on the northern edges of the planet, bordering a wasteland that likely would have killed them had they been any species weaker than Asgardian. The colony, quite frankly, makes the outer circles of Sakaar seem luxurious by comparison. It’s smart, she thinks, very few potential enemies would think there was anything worth attacking a wasteland over.

A commotion stirs when she emerges from her ship, finding a tentative crowd gathering.

“Who are you?” a man asks, taking half a step forward, shielding two children behind him in the process. There is nothing about his stance that shows any sort of formal training, any sort of real strength beyond the comparative strength Asgridans possess. Yet she has no doubt that he would try to attack her if she made a single wrong move. “How did you find us?”

“Heimdall sent me,” she says, not bothering to drag the news out with any formalities. She is instantly met with wide eyes and hushed whispers. “Yes, he’s alive. As is Thor. Along with a few hundred others.”

The man who she suspects must be some sort of leader amongst them frowns. “Who are you?” he repeats a little harder this time. The unspoken words linger in the air between them — _how can we trust you? We don’t know you. You weren’t on Asgard when we left._

_You are a stranger to us._

She’s their King, she should say. But the word sticks in her throat because these people have no reason to believe her, this random Asgardian showing up after years of believing everything was lost in Ragnarok. She has no way to prove it. And, truth be told, with Thor’s return to New Asgard, she may not even be King anymore.

“I’m a Valkyrie,” she says and pulls the edge of her sleeve up to offer proof in the form of the very tattoo she’s avoided all these years. “I fought with Thor and Heimdall during the Ragnarok.”

“So Asgard didn’t perish?” a woman asks, stepping forward, her voice edged with hints of hope. “We heard...”

“Asgard is not a place,” she says before they can gather too much hope for something that is gone. “It’s a people.”

She gives them the speech she half-practiced on her journey from D’Bari. She tells them of how the Asgardians who survived they have a home, small as it may be, on Earth. New Asgard — a nation with legal status and enough land for the few hundred of them that live there. It would be enough for them too, if they want to claim it.

But only if they want.

Because regardless of the lengths she has gone to, the literal months she has spent travelling to them, and irregardless of the literal wasteland these Asgardians currently call home, the decision has to be theirs. They have to want to come back with her. Because Asgard _is_ a people, not a place. This can be Asgard for them, if they want. Nothing good will come from forcing their hand. The choice has to be theirs.

Just as the choice had been hers.

She returns to her ship while they meet to make their decision.

Two hours later, they decide they do.

They depart the following day.

They land on New Asgard an entire season later than when she departed.

The air is crisp and cool in a way that almost burns her lungs after months aboard a ship with controlled airflow. The trees surrounding them are half bare, struggling to hold onto their remaining brightly colored leaves, the majority of which litter the ground. The edges of the horizon are painted pink and yellow as the sun begins its late morning rise.

But she hardly notices any of it, because the moment the doors of the ship open and she’s reunited with her home, she sees Thor, grinning so brightly that something in her chest clicks into place.

“So,” he says, his voice playful, “You didn’t die.”

The edges of her lips tug into a smile. “It appears that way.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, but he’s cut off by a woman rushing up to him, her face bright and excited as she tells him how thrilled they are that their King survived.

“I am not your King,” he interrupts before the woman can much further, and then nods in _her_ direction. “She is.”

The woman raises a brow. “I thought she was a Valkyrie.”

“She is. Was.” He looks to her for help.

She does not give it to him.

“Aye,” Heimdall says as he walks up, a crowd of New Asgardians trailing him, all excited to be reunited with the people they thought they lost. “King Valkyrie.”

He gives them some sort of explanation confirming her title, but she hardly hears it, still focused on Thor referring to her as King. When he left, he gave the throne to her because he decided Asgard was not the place for him. Because he wanted to move on with his life. Because he wanted to leave.

If he’s still not taking it back, if he still claims her as King, then it can only mean he plans to leave. Again.

After all this time it shouldn’t, but it hurts.

In true Asgard manner, the reunion of their people calls for a grand celebration.

Once upon a time, an entire lifetime ago, extravagant celebrations were a dime a dozen — a land with endless power and wealth had little reason to not constantly celebrate. Now, however, they rarely occur. Not only because means are tight but because rebuilding an entire nation, and entire civilization, from scratch is _exhausting_. Rarely do they have the time or energy to spare. But if there was ever a cause for an Old Asgardian style celebration, it’s this.

They gather at the town hall, all too high on excitement to once complain about how packed the space is with their newest additions, and enjoy the largest feast in New Asgard history. A group of elders even gather instruments, putting together a makeshift band. They can only play the same five Old Asgardian songs, but she doubts anyone notices considering how drunk the people are on both merriment and alcohol.

All Asgardians — from those that founded New Asgard to the accrued refugees with Asgardian citizenship to those who recently returned to them — celebrate the unity of Asgard, of a people who survive no matter what Fate throws at them.

And in the midst of it all, she slips out the doors, almost completely unnoticed. Almost.

“Retiring so soon, My King?”

She rolls her eyes at Heimdall’s formality. Even after all these years, she can’t tell if he does it more out of loyalty, habit, or because he knows it annoys her. The latter, she suspects, but cannot prove it.

“The King they want is still inside,” she says, not entirely sure whether or not the newly returned Asgardians even accept her as their King. “Which means I am free to retire.”

Heimdall studies her for a moment, the edges of his lips tugging up into a small but definitive smirk. “And here I thought we were past the era of our Kings running away from their problems,” he says as if that is supposed to mean something to her. He then returns to the hall with nothing more than a, “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

He definitely does it to annoy her, she decides.

She’s just emerged from the shower and dressed for bed when a knock comes at her door. For a moment she almost fears it’s someone come to sweep her away in the drunken celebrations. They would hardly care that she’s no longer dressed for the night. It is tradition, after all, for a King to celebrate with their people. And that’s what tonight was supposed to be about: the traditions of the past. It hardly matters that it isn’t a past she belongs to.

The knock comes again, this time a little more gentle. Tentative, almost. It’s hesitant in a way that gives her confidence, because anyone coming to drag her away would hardly be shy. Especially not with the amount of liquor they would have had to consume to attempt something so bold.

She adds a robe over her night clothing, just in case, before she opens the door.

Thor greets her with a nervous smile, his hands buried in the pockets of some large flannel coat that would likely look hideous on anyone less attractive than him. Given the hour and the amount of work she knows he’s put into the night’s celebration, he looks surprisingly rested. More rested than she thinks she’s ever seen him if she’s being honest.

It’s a stark difference from the last time he came to her door all those years ago.

Sobriety suits him.

“Hi,” he says slowly.

“Hi,” she responds, equally hesitant. “Is everything okay?”

He presses his lips. “I, uh, came to ask you that. You left early. Are you okay?”

“Are you?” she asks in return. He hadn’t partaken in any of the drinking celebrations, she knows, but being surrounded by that level of temptation is hardly an easy feat.

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead his gaze slips from her face to her hair, falling over her shoulder, long and free. “I like your hair. Did you do something different to it?”

She rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at her lips. “Washed it.”

“Knew it,” he says, his voice so soft, so delicate, that she almost strains to hear it.

Once upon a time, she thinks he would have said something more — something stupid and clumsy but clearly flirty. He would have grinned at her, big and goofy, in that way that lit up the night sky. He would have made some sort of move.

But that was before, a lifetime ago. Now he stands there in her doorway, his hands still buried in his pockets, unsure of where he stands. Of whether or not he is even allowed to stand there, but too scared to walk away. Because away, she realizes suddenly, could lead back to that celebration. To that temptation. And though she knows he didn’t come to her for support — quite literally the opposite — whether he realizes it or not, he needs it.

But he has no right to ask that of her. So he doesn’t.

“What now?” she asks, half to break the silence. He raises a brow, clearly awaiting further elaboration. She sighs and crosses her arms over her chest. “Where are you off to now? Back to D’Bari or some place else?”

It’s subtle, but for a flicker of a moment she swears Thor deflates. Then she blinks and he’s back to normal, so swiftly that she almost doubts her own eyes. Either he’s gotten better at the subtlety thing or, after all these years, she’s lost the ability to read him.

“I was actually thinking I would stick around,” he says, almost too casually as if he’s been practicing the line. Then asks, “Do you… want me to leave?”

_Yes_.

The word lingers on her tongue and she’s tempted to say. She _wants_ to say. _Should_ say. _Needs_ to say it. Because the longer he’s here, the harder it is to ignore how much she doesn’t want him to leave. Which means it will hurt even more when he leaves again. So she definitely should say it, to make it clear where they should stand now, to put whatever this is between them to rest once and for all.

Except there’s a celebration going on for all the people finally reuniting with their loved ones in a way she will never experience. Because, if she’s being truthful, without him, she is virtually alone. And though she knows she shouldn’t want him to stay, she does.

Because, whether she likes it or not, she might just need him as much as he needs her.

She takes a breath and, without a word, steps back, allowing him entrance.

He smiles and accepts the gesture.

His hands, rough and calloused from years of battle, are surprisingly gentle in her hair.

She sits on the floor in front of him on the couch with her back carefully nudged between his legs. He brushes oil into her hair and begins what he promises will be the most spectacular briad. His mother taught him how to braid. No child of Frigga would have anything less than excellent hair.

It makes sense, she refuses to say. He hardly got his beauty from Odin.

Thor fills her silence by telling her stories of his childhood and the times Frigga would make him and Loki braid each other’s hair after they fought. His voice is bright and animated. She would envy his ability to talk about his past if she wasn’t so painfully aware of how much it must still hurt.

“Can I ask you something?” she asks abruptly, cutting him off in the midst of him saying something about Loki braiding honey into his hair.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”

“When you left New Asgard you said that it was time for you to be who you wanted to be rather of who you were meant to be.”

His hands falter for a beat, and though she can’t see his expression, she can practically feel the guilt radiating off of him. Something in the pit of her stomach stirs at the memory of where guilt can lead him, and she’s almost tempted to bite back the question for his sake. But if he truly plans to stick around this time, she needs to know for her own sake.

So she bites back her fear and asks, “Do you still think that?”

The way he hesitates answers her question louder than any words ever could.

“Aye,” he admits slowly. “I do.”

Whether she’s angry at him for telling her the truth she doesn’t want to hear or herself for expecting anything else, she doesn’t know. Likely both. What she does know is that were it not for his hands in her hair, trapping her against him, she would have put as much distance between them as possible.

He must know it too, because he continues before she can decide that getting away from him would be worth the physical pain. “But then I came home and I realized that maybe the person I want to be belongs here. With my people. And with…” he trails off.

“With?”

Thor doesn’t answer.

He brushes his hand against her shoulder. “Done,” he says softly, and hands her a mirror, allowing her to survey the crown braid. It’s delicately crafted in a way that’s beautiful, but still practical in how tightly it's woven against her scalp. It’s perfect. And based on how he grins at her in the mirror’s reflection, she thinks he must agree.

It’s only when she turns around and faces him that she realizes she’s smiling as well.

“Now,” he says softly. “May I ask you something?”

She nods. “I suppose that would only be fair.”

“Who do you want to be?” he asks. “Not _who do you think you’re supposed to be?_ What do you want?”

Her smile falters and she wants to roll her eyes. Leave it to him to think that is an actual question for her. That she ever, for even a moment, gave consideration to what she wants rather than what she needs to do. She isn’t like him — she wasn’t born with the luxury of wanting things. She never has.

She was born and bred to be a Valkyrie. She always knew who she would be, what she would do. It wasn’t a matter she ever gave thought to because it was the only thing she ever knew. So she was a Valkyrie. Until she wasn’t. Except that isn’t exactly a time — a person — she cares to go back to.

Besides, returning to being a Valkyrie — to protecting the throne, the people, the remnants of their civilization — was what saved her. She would have died, alone and miserable, on Sakaar if she hadn’t returned to being a Valkyrie. She owed her life to it — to helping the people she abandoned once upon a time. So she did what she had to, even when that meant becoming the King.

So she wants to roll her eyes and tell him what a ridiculous question that is. But standing there, with his gaze so earnest, the words catch in her throat. Because suddenly anything but a genuine answer feels wrong. Especially after the honesty he gave her. So she says nothing.

“What I want,” she says, her voice so dry he can tell she doesn’t mean it, “Is to go to bed.”

He smiles, hardly phased by her avoidance. “Your wish is my command.”

Yet when it comes time for him to leave, he lingers in her doorway, neither of them truly ready for the night to end. It’s almost laughable given how their night began with her so desperate to put distance between them. She’d say she should have known better, but if she’s being honest, she knew exactly what she was getting into the moment she invited him in.

So he stands there, his gaze trailing from her eyes to her cheek. Slowly, hesitantly, he takes a step forward, tightening what little space lingered between them. When she doesn’t take a step back, he lifts his hand, pausing right above her cheek, seeking permission to get familiar.

Seeking her forgiveness.

The warrior in her, bitter and wounded from the past, wants nothing more than to stop him. He may have apologized, words mean little without action. He may be back, but for how long? How long until he decides that who he wants to be belongs elsewhere — somewhere that doesn’t require him to be in a boring meeting about Earth politics, somewhere that doesn’t struggle to survive, somewhere more exciting than New Asgard could ever be.

Somewhere without her.

And yet.

She wants to forgive him. Because she missed him — _still_ misses him — so much so that it aches in a way she hadn’t noticed until right then, having become too accustomed to always being in pain. And so she hardly cares if it’s foolish to believe in him again because she’s tired of missing him, of aching. She wants to not be in pain.

And maybe, after all she has done, she deserves that much.

He smiles when she nods. His hand cups her cheek, his thumb tenderly brushes against her cheek and that familiar lightning strikes her core. Without thinking, she leans into his touch.

It would be so easy to take it one step further, to close the space between them completely. Except one step would lead to another and then another, and so it would go until there was no turning back. And she isn’t there, and frankly she isn’t entirely convinced he is either. At least not yet.

He smiles, understanding her without needing the words, and slowly pulls his hand away before he steps back, finally opening the door to leave.

“Goodnight, Your Majesty,” he whispers.

He lifts his thumb against his lips, giving her one silent goodnight kiss before leaving.

That night, for the first time in years, she sleeps without dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise it won't take another year to get the last chapter. 
> 
> also, a heads up: i am going to change the fic summary soon. it will be the same as this chapter summary. a lot of things have changed over the course of writing these last two chapters and i no longer think the original "summary" properly reflects the fic.


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